


la vie en rose et jaune

by alynshir



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Gen, Kinda?, Second Person, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 17:25:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6866143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alynshir/pseuds/alynshir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thinking, and remembering, are two different things. Somewhere, the line starts to blur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	la vie en rose et jaune

**Author's Note:**

> this was inspired by the song 'la vie en rose' by edith piaf. all the french is from that; I edited pronouns in one line near the end for cohesiveness.

 

There was a girl once, you think, and she blushed with spring, at little things, at little hellos and little touches, at little smiles shyly meant for her. They made her chest swell with sunlight, made her want to hum along to music whispering through leaves, through flower petals, they made her want to spin, pirouette, made her want to sing, sing, sing with the birds and the windchimes, _des yeux qui font baisser les miens, un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche, voilà le portrait sans retouche, de l’homme auquel j’appartiens,_ they made her want a lot of things, they made her want to sing. But you do not remember what it felt like to feel the stirrings of strings that sing in your bones, to feel the notes rising and falling in the back of your throat even if you do not let them escape past your lips. You cannot even summon up a sound now, you remember the tune until it touches you, traces its thumb over your cheek, and then it is gone; you are Tantalus, Tantalos, tantalised by the sound of music and by the sound of spring.

There is a girl now, a girl who you know, a girl who when not spiting you ‘for laughs’, hums along to music hidden beneath her hair, music that nobody else can hear, music that makes her smile and laugh with that sunlit grin that you hate, and from your shadows sometimes you are curious as to what the words might be, to make her so…the word is lost to you. But then, it does not seem to take much to make her as such. Perhaps it does not matter what the words are. You think to yourself, derision dripping even in thought, that she could be listening to a recitation of the alphabet, and that alone would make her smile so, but somewhere down the line you realise you are smiling yourself, faint but not false, at the thought of something so simple being able to make someone…well, you are not sure of the word.

There was a girl once, you think, and she was loved by a boy who would not pick her flowers and instead planted them, planted them and guided her hand so she could too. You remember together they watched the flowers bloom in high spring, the sun was warm on the nape of her neck and dappled across her skin and his arms, those too, were warm around her, _quand il me prend dans ses bras, il me parle tout bas, je vois la vie en rose, Il me dit des mots d’amour, des mots de tous les jours et ça me fait quelque chose._ But you do not remember what it is like to feel so warm, to feel touched by light and to feel touched and embraced by someone who looked at you like that. You do not remember this warmth, you do not remember this light, you only remember the biting kiss of wind and the embrace of chill, you do not remember how sunlight feels shining through your hair, you only remember moonless night.

There is a girl now, a girl who you know, a girl who likes to whisper ridiculous things in your ear as you line up for a shot, a shot that was supposed to be meant for her, your finger flinches off the trigger as her breath tickles your ear, you catch a glimpse of her face, she is smiling. She always smiles at you, even for all that she knows you are, smiles brighter than the sun, and it always, without fail, manages to send your shot to the side. Your shots never go to the side, save for when they are meant for her. This infuriates you. But it also makes you wonder, actually wonder, for the first time in a long time, and it makes you wonder why. You are not someone to be smiled at. Nobody smiles at you. The last time you remember a smile…you don’t.

There was a girl once, you think, and she wore light dresses, dresses that rustled and that danced, waltzed with the wind. She wore a light dress, once, you think, a dress the color of pearls, the color of clouds bright against blue, she did not hold flowers as she kissed he who had taught her to plant them, she instead held his hands as he held hers. He held her hands and her heart in his hands and he whispered promises, _c’est lui pour moi, moi pour lui dans la vie, il me l’a dit, l’a juré pour la vie,_ forever he would love her, because any longer would be too short of a time, and he would love her, yes, and she would love him, and she promised, and she did, oh, she did. But you do not remember this love, you do not remember this promise, and each time you have tried to taste the words on your tongue, they taste stale, they taste cold, they taste like things you have never said, you do not remember this, but you taste the words again anyway, because they taste as if they were real.

There is a girl now, a girl who you know, and she wears ridiculous things, things with bright colors, like yellow - what a strange color. The color of bees, whose sound you do not like, (accurate, for she is an annoyance) the color of lemons, that leave you sour and bitter (accurate, for each fight you leave with her is a failure, perhaps not technically, but a failure regardless), and of course, yellow is the color of daffodils. You are unsure for many moments you deliberate on this, why daffodils strikes you as an ‘of course’ comparison to a primary color. Yes, this girl is bright, with her constant smiles and cheers. Yes, this girl is akin to a trumpet - an instrument which you do not remember the sound of, but you know she is similar to one regardless. But a daffodil? What a strange simile. But it is suitable, you think, for such a strange girl.

You think the girl that was once, perhaps danced amongst daffodils once. You think, you think. You think about this girl quite often, you realise, and you are not entirely sure as to why. You do not know if she was real. The thought disturbs you, and nothing is supposed to disturb you, but this does regardless. She has just always been there, this girl who was once, dancing at the edge of your thoughts, her steps easily toeing the line so you do not forget, but do not…remember. You do not think you are supposed to remember her. But she does not let you forget. She does not let you forget any of her that you have, and you find yourself clinging to it, fiercely for no cause, because the girl who was once, knew what it was like to be warm, to sing, to dance, to be loved, she does not let you forget that she knows, that she knows all of these things that you do not, and although you cannot have it, you want it, and when this occurs to you, _et dès que je sa aperçois, alors je sens en moi, mon coeur qui bat_ , your heart skips a beat. It does not do that.

This girl who you know now, too, does not let you forget. She does not let you forget each smile, or perhaps you do not let yourself forget each smile, because they are warm, they are hopeful, they are bright, they are warm and they will not ever break you, but they are a whisper of what was once, and they are a trace of something that is new, but also something not so new, for there is a familiarity in her that you know you should not remember, but regardless of whether you should, you do, you do, you remember her and you pretend you do not, or you pretend you do not care, but in truth you remember and you realise just how cold you are, just how chilled to the bone you are, and you realise how much you don’t want to be. This girl who you know now, she makes you remember cold blooded hearts need the sun to keep beating, _et dès que je sa aperçois, alors je sens en moi, mon coeur qui bat._

The girl who was once, smiles as you remember her. It is a soft smile, a gentle one, the likes of which you cannot summon to your own lips anymore. She is patient, waiting for you to remember what you cannot forget, and you do remember patience, because patience is a virtue the world has left you with, the only virtue a killer can hold close to her heart. But this patience is softer, is gentle, is white like pearls and is soft like spring, while yours is black like ice and hard like winter. The girl who was once, smiles at the thought of spring thaw.

You think her name, perhaps, might have been Amélie.


End file.
